


One To One

by turnedherbrain



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 21:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: It’s the final semester of your final year at college, and you’re determined to make it count. So when your attractive literature professor offers you extra tutoring, why is your first impulse to turn him down?





	1. Chapter 1

‘ _Deeper Into Shakespeare_ ,’ reads the course description in the catalogue. ‘ _Offering a profound insight into some of his most celebrated plays and characters, from Prince Hal, to Prospero. Course tutor: Professor Lee_.’

You gulp inwardly as you read the name. The course sounds interesting, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near as interesting without the English Literature faculty’s leading man. There are campus legends about him – some of them slightly truthful, perhaps, but with extra layers of embellishment.

So your index finger is poised over the sign up button when course registration opens, waiting and willing to be the first to sign on for this class. You have plenty of time to wait – working as a clerk at an out-of-the-way motel, you’re spending your hours filling in grant application forms for further study and dreaming of a certain professor who’s probably miles away, in Cabo de Whatever, enjoying his spring break and getting a ridiculously good all-over tan.

You’d like to be sunning yourself too, but lack of funds means you’re not enjoying the flipside of student life quite so much. No road trips to Mexico: more quick outings to the 7/11. If it wasn’t for the thought of this class and seeing the few friends you’ve made, the prospect of your final term would be very bleak indeed.

…

Week one. You choose your seat in seminar room 2B with care. Not too near the front – too keen, too obvious. Save that for the girl who’s doodling heart eyes on her folder. Middle-back? Too far away. Middle then. Not _too_ close. Safe.

‘Are you here for Professor Perfect too?’ confides the girl next to you. She laughs and rolls her eyes as you blush. ‘Don’t worry, we all are.’

Then you realise that out of the 20 plus students waiting attentively in the room, only one isn’t female. Argh. Of course you’re not the only one with a crush. In fact, the sole male student is waiting very attentively too, and probably drawing heart eyes on _his_ folder.

Professor Perfect. A campus-wide nickname, given because this particular professor is always so nattily dressed and perfectly turned out, with pressed linen shirts and fitted chinos. His hair’s always combed down, and you find it hard to imagine him just woken up, with it all mussed up and sexy, although you’ve tried _many_ times to imagine that exact scenario.

Yet the man who stumbles into the seminar room isn’t the Professor Perfect everyone’s been anticipating. His shirt is crumpled and curled up at the hem. His hair is a bit wild. He’s wearing spectacles with tortoiseshell frames, which look like they’re worn more to obscure his reddened eyelids than because he needs them. His holiday tan is dull rather than bright.

He delivers the seminar in a leaden manner, clearly distracted, fingers running through the wild hair, making it stick out at the sides. He ends by saying: ‘This week’s assignment… imagine yourself in the shoes of one of Shakespeare’s characters. Write from their point of view, either in their own world of the play, or another universe entirely.’

Half-obscured groans from some of your classmates, but you’re fired up and can’t wait to start. This is supposed to be deeper into Shakespeare, right? You can’t get any deeper than imagining yourself inside a character. You can’t wait to start, turning in your assignment early and hoping that there’s enough there to impress your professor.

Week two, and the professor who enters the classroom is more like himself. Polished, debonair, urbane. Funny too; more relaxed. The entire room is rapt. You start to think that his doppelganger appeared last week and took the class – that can be the only explanation.

You’re surprised and delighted when, at the end of the too-brief hour, he calls you back as you make to leave: ‘Y/N? Can I chat to you briefly?’

You saunter over, trying to fake nonchalance and failing. ‘Professor Lee. I hope there’s nothing wrong?’

He sits on the edge of his desk, clutching a sheaf of paper that you recognise as your assignment. Oh no. Assignment feedback. Helpful pointers and tips. Just the type of conversation you _don’t_ want to be having with him.

‘It’s this,’ he begins, tapping the papers against his thigh. Don’t look at his thighs! Unfff. Distracting. Try to focus. ‘Your assignment is quite… different. You see, most students only really begin to skim the surface with Shakespeare. But what you’ve done… you’ve really got it. Deeper insight, I mean.’ For someone who’s normally so eloquent, he’s struggling to explain. ‘But then I looked at your file and saw your grades over the last three years. And I realised that I have someone in my class who could teach me something,’ he smiles, looking at you at an angle, trying to gauge your reaction. The world starts to melt around you and the heat of an embarrassed, elated flush makes its way up from your toes.

‘Thank you, Professor Lee. I work hard,’ you mumble.

‘I can see,’ he taps the papers again. ‘I wanted to ask you – have you been offered any extra tutoring at any point? Because as a student on a bursary, you’re entitled…’ he coughs in slight embarrassment. So he knows more than just your grades. He knows your dire financial situation too. Great. Now you’re a charity case, a second-hand student.

‘I haven’t,’ you reply, this time burning with shame, although you can see he’s been leading up to this as sensitively as he could. ‘I didn’t want to. I want to be self-sufficient.’

He smiles again, but this time it’s more reflectively. ‘I understand. But you are aware that practically every other student in this class is cramming to get the mediocre grades they’re getting, with tutors paid for by the federal reserves of mum and dad?’

You nod silently. That’s why you’ve worked so hard, forgoing a lot of the student experience. You want to make it on your own strict terms.

‘Listen. I want to help,’ the professor gets to his feet and wanders back round to the other side of the desk, starting to stuff his papers and books into his satchel, a signal that the conversation is drawing to a close. ‘I can completely understand if you choose to decline, but the offer is there. Let me tutor you for this final semester, one on one. You’re already soaring above most of the others in terms of your understanding, so let’s aim to extend that. My office is in quadrant four – third floor of the Carnegie building. Let’s say Friday, 6pm? If you don’t turn up, I’ll consider my offer declined and we’ll speak no more about it.’

Then he gives you a slight nod and walks with long limbs to the classroom door, letting it swing closed behind him. You’re left standing under a strip of fluorescent light, dumbstruck, wondering whether your pride will make you refuse, or your longing will make you accept.


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, your curiosity overcomes pride, and early that Friday evening you find yourself outside Professor Lee’s office, leaning against the wall to steady your nerves. You’ve accidentally-on-purpose walked down this corridor so many times, and his office door with its pane of frosted glass has always remained resolutely closed.

6pm. 6:05. A quarter past. Twenty minutes pass, and no sign. You begin to wonder if he’s reneged on his promise, or thought better of it, or forgotten entirely. Twenty-five minutes of lonely leaning and you’re just about to leave when you spot his long stride. You stand to attention, instantly aware that your skin’s begun to prickle and the cool corridor suddenly seems to heat up.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says as he reaches you, offering no further explanation as he bends to insert the key into the locked office door. Here he is again – the doppelganger. Hair ruffled, a strained look on his face, skin pale under the tan.

‘Professor Lee… is this a good time?’ you ask, metaphorically kicking yourself as the words tumble out. You’ve spent the last four days in keen anticipation of this session, and now you’re offering to cancel? But one look at his face, and you can’t help but cave in to silent sympathy. Whatever’s bothering him is something that’s affecting him deeply and is spilling out onto the surface.

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ he says curtly.

Inside the office is further disarray. The wood panelled room has high-up latticed windows, and bookcases lining all available wall space. Books are crammed on shelves, heaped in piles on the floor, slotted into alcoves… Papers litter the huge desk, where an antique Art Nouveau lamp stands above the debris. This is another surprise – that someone so presentable is a disorganised mess in private. You tiptoe across the floor, pick a sheaf of paper off a chair and sit down tentatively, while the professor removes the haphazard pile of papers and books from his cushioned seat.

‘I hardly use this office. It’s more storage actually.’ He states, by way of explanation. You’re not kidding, you think. He runs his hand distractedly through his hair, before leaning forward. ‘So, the important question today is… how do we spend our time?’

You instantly think of the multitude of ways in which you’d like to spend time with him, all of which involve no studying whatsoever. You hope your illicit thoughts don’t show though, as you try to remain outwardly innocent.

‘How about we pick an area you’re interested in, and go from there?’ he suggests, blissfully ignorant of your train of thought. ‘Are there any particular authors you’ve listed on your grad school applications?’

You reel off a list: Shelley, Coleridge, Dylan Thomas… and watch as he nods at each one. With each name you utter, he appears to relax more, the evident tension in his face dissipating. You carry on, happy to help calm whatever emotional turmoil he’s in.

You both decide on Dylan Thomas, and spend far more than the allotted hour discussing the merits of his poems. At the end of that time, he reaches up to a high shelf, showing a tantalising glimpse of tanned, toned torso, and pulls down a hardback book. ‘Here, you can have this,’ he says, proffering the volume like he’s just offered you a stick of gum. ‘It’s Thomas’ collected poems.’ You start to shake your head, silently declining, but he pushes the book towards you again. ‘Take it. I don’t need it, honestly.’

Clutching the book to your chest like it’s an anniversary gift, you cross the quad after the session, looking back to see the office light still on. You wonder whether he’s picked another book off the shelves, or if he’s fallen asleep, hair flopping over his folded arms.

It’s only later, in the faint halo of your dorm’s bedside lamp, that you open up the book of poetry and see the inscription: ‘Dearest Gwil,’ reads the looping script. ‘Remember when we were in Laugharne, and you read this to me?’ Then the name ‘Emilie’ and a scrawled pen kiss, like the writer had been in a rush to finish. You feel like you’ve stumbled upon a piece of his past, and wonder whether the insistent way he’d handed you the book was more than simple generosity. Maybe he was trying to erase Emilie from his memory. Maybe she was the cause of his current disarray.

…

The next couple of weeks are spent in constant, nervous anticipation. Monday seminar, Friday one-to-one session, with a blurred week in between. The only other thing that distracts you is your last-minute application for a graduate bursary at the same college. You’ve been thinking you’d like to stay here: it’s got a decent English faculty, and some great professors. Who are you kidding… _one_ great professor. But you genuinely like this place, and you can think of plenty more reasons to stay.

Either way, you’re starting to feel comfortable with him now. You dare to look at him directly in class, rather than sidled glances from under your fringe, and the one-to-one sessions encourage you to think you might even become his friend. More than that, you don’t dare to imagine.

The third time you meet in his messy office, the rumours are swirling thickly about him. Some days he’s perfect – beautifully perfect. Other days he’s distracted and disorganised. The most ridiculous campus rumour is that his evil twin is teaching some seminars to dislodge his brother’s reputation. You feel for him, this not-quite-yet-a-friend. So you are fairly confident to broach this topic when, after the third session, you hesitate before leaving, and ask him: ‘Professor Lee… are you OK?’

He’s bent over a book at his desk and looks up as if he’s surprised you’re still there. There’s a faint something in his eyes, a cloud that passes over quickly, before he reasserts himself. ‘Yes, fine. Why do you ask?’

You squirm uncomfortably, holding on to the door handle like it’s a talisman. ‘It’s just… some of the students have been talking, and they think…’

‘Students always talk.’ He replies wearily. ‘Thank you for your concern, though.’

You nod, acutely embarrassed, before escaping from the room. Well, _that_ went extra-badly. As you walk over the quad towards your dorm, you deliberately don’t look back. Professor and student, that’s all it will ever be. Nothing more. Ever.


	3. Chapter 3

Your anticipation for the coming week’s one-to-one session is more like trepidation. Whatever is bothering the professor presents itself as a barrier at every turn, but if he doesn’t want to take you into his confidence, you need to respect that. After all, while you’re only a month away from graduation, you’re still a student, and he’s still your professor. So it surprises you when, at the end of another enjoyable discussion, he lets you see beyond the perfect patina of _‘it’s all OK’_.

‘Last time – you asked me what was wrong,’ he starts, letting his long arms stretch out idly over the desktop like a cat waking from its nap. You’ve got to know his body language and realise this is a diversion: the languid movement says _‘I don’t care, it’s not important’_ , while the undertone in his voice says exactly the opposite.

You nod mildly, even though you want to be taken into his confidence more than anything.

‘It’s my ex,’ he says dully. He’s not looking at you, but instead intently studying his fingernails. ‘She was gone for a while, but now she’s come back, and she’s with someone else. Some days, I feel free of her. Other days, it’s like I’m drowning and the reeds are tugging me down and I can’t reach the surface.’

‘Can you avoid seeing her?’ you ask, restraining yourself from taking hold of his hands, you’re so close to touching.

‘Most of the time,’ he replies, more emotion breaking through to the surface. ‘She doesn’t work at the college, thank god. But we’ve got lots of friends in common. And there’s a party tonight, that I know she’ll be at.’

‘Why don’t you… ask out the best-looking professor on campus, and take them with you to the party?’ you offer, terrible _ad hoc_ advice.

He just laughs. ‘Yeah. Nice idea. Nope. I think I’ll just stay here and spend the evening in the comforting arms of some single malt.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t drink alone,’ you say, mock-sternly. You don’t know quite what’s happened to you over the past month. Maybe it’s the idea of being good at what you do, or the thought of being accepted into grad school. Maybe it’s someone you secretly pine for taking you into their confidence.

‘In that case,’ he smiles, before ducking under the desk and retrieving a dusty bottle of Lagavulin. ‘Would you like to stay a little longer, and have one drink?’

‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ you reply in your head. ‘I _will_ marry you.’

Out loud, you simply say: ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

…

Gwilym. Gwil. That’s what you call him now. It’s a start. It’s something. It’s more than something, in your head, but you know it’s not reflected in his eyes and you tell yourself to stop being stupid. There is fantasy, and there is a very separate, distinct reality.

The week is dominated – other than by thoughts of Professor Lee, as you still call him in the seminar room – by your grad school interview. Gulping down terror, you stand in front of the imposing panel of interviewers, as they aim like persistent fishermen to catch you and haul you breathless into the shallows, caught by their bait. At the end of the challenging interview, one of the panellists takes you aside, confessing: ‘I must say, I’m glad to meet a student who lives up to their sterling reputation.’

‘I’m sorry?’

The woman blinks once behind her glasses. ‘Your references. I’ve never read so many superlatives in all my life!’

‘May I read them?’ you ask, more than intrigued.

‘You can access them freely. Just ask at the Faculty office, they’ll be on your file.’

Hands shaking, you make an immediate detour to the office as directed, wondering which of your professors has written about you. Handed a copy of the references, you make your way back to the dorm room and perch on your bed, scrunching up your eyes to read. Not from poor vision, just anticipating embarrassment at people you know, writing kind words about your abilities.

There are four references in total, three of which are a couple of paragraphs in length. The final reference extends to over a page though, and as you start to read, you realise who’s written it almost immediately. But of course he’d write you a reference. And it was all about your critical abilities; your academic competence. Nothing about you. No praise for your eyes, or your lips, or any other part of you. But the way you devour his words, it’s like the first love letter you’ve ever received.

…

As you walk to that Friday’s session, you wonder whether you should mention that you’ve read the reference, but then decide no – most students wouldn’t think to access their references, and part of you likes keeping his abundant praise private, inside your head.

When you arrive at the office, you’re startled to find Gwil already there, packing the last of the book piles into a storage box. ‘Spring clean,’ he explains, as he hefts the box onto a neat stack of four. ‘A very late spring clean. Almost summer, actually.’ He grins at his progress: ‘You can see the floor now.’

He looks far better too, like he’s shrugged off a load and the tidying is a way of reasserting control of his world. This evening, there’s no dip in mood, or hands raked through hair – although you do kind of miss that whole bedhead look. Instead of sitting behind the desk, he pulls up a chair next to yours and during the session, you notice that his legs loll outwards more and more, until your limbs are nearly touching. You can feel the distracting heat, as the distance between your bodies drops to mere millimetres.

Two more weeks of this, you think. Two more weeks, then you can spend the whole summer long at the motel, just sitting at the check-in desk and turning this exact moment into a much more interesting daydream.

…

The final Friday now. You almost thought of messaging him and calling it off. There’s bound to be an awkward moment. It’s become less like a coaching session, in these final weeks, and more like friends chatting and enjoying each other’s company. But that’s the problem. That’s all it is – only friends, nothing more, never likely to be more. He’s probably still pining for Emilie, you reason with yourself, underneath all that surface bravado.

At least you know that you’ll see him again: no longer student and professor but something more like equals, as you’ve heard from the grad school panel that your application was successful.

‘You know how many applicants they get, don’t you?’ Gwil says proudly, when you meet in his far-tidier office. ‘Hundreds. To be the single person that gets picked – it’s a real honour. An honour you very much deserve, Y/N.’

‘Thanks,’ you blush, wondering how much weight they gave to his glowing reference. ‘It makes the last three years of hard work seem worth it.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agrees.

There’s a short gap in the conversation – that almost-visible awkwardness, just like you feared.

‘What are you doing with your summer?’ asks Gwil, seemingly out of politeness and to fill the silence.

‘The motel,’ you shrug.

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’ve no idea what that means.’

‘Oh. I work at a motel, near my parents’. It’s dull, but it gives me time to read.’ And daydream. ‘What about you?’ You wonder if that question sounds as airy and disinterested as you’re trying to make it sound.

‘Going to the cabin.’

‘Ummm, explanation needed?’ you tease him.

He laughs. ‘I’ve got a cabin in Vermont. It’s beautiful there. Virgin forest. No distractions. I’m going to write a book – correction, _try_ and write a book. You should come up there one time!’

You cough to cover your alternate embarrassment and pleasure, unsure whether you’ve just received a vague ‘maybe sometime equals sometime never’ or an actual, concrete, definite invitation to visit him. A cabin in the forest sounds perfect, just the two of you…

Ending your mini reverie, you come back to planet reality and discover that Gwil is staring at you with a look of bemusement on his face. For about the hundredth time since you’ve started these sessions, you are beyond glad that he can’t read your thoughts. But the invitation that might not be an invitation hangs in the air, and you can’t swipe it away.

At the end of the session, you are tempted to cut short the time. There seems to be nothing more to say, and the longer the minutes extend, the more you’re feeling a creeping sadness of a summer without seeing him. Making your mumbled excuses, you dash for the door, not wanting to prolong the parting.

‘Don’t go…’ he blurts suddenly. ‘Stay a bit longer.’ He covers your hand that’s resting on the door handle with his, holding it softly but making his meaning clear.

You turn towards him, still holding onto his hand, moving closer and resting your dipped head against his chest. He tips your chin up with gentle fingertips and bends down to kiss you tentatively, his lips tender and warm, then harder, more insistent, until both of you are breathing in ragged gasps.

‘I’m not going. I’ll stay. I can’t stand a whole summer of missing you,’ you confess, in between lingering, deep kisses that are better than your fantasy.

He encircles your waist and holds you close for such a long time, until eventually your bodies reluctantly disentangle. ‘I’m leaving for the cabin tomorrow,’ he whispers. ‘Fancy a road trip?’

You kiss him in response, making it clear that your answer is, and always has been, a yes.


End file.
